


the hermit and the child

by cardinal__sin



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Light Angst, Magic, child angus mcfife, pre-space 1992
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin/pseuds/cardinal__sin
Summary: Angus McFife is four years old and allergic to rules. Ralathor is approximately four thousand years old and allergic to visitors. Naturally, it's Angus' first instinct to seek him out.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	the hermit and the child

**Author's Note:**

> This is a teensy tiny bit of self indulgent fic from the time when everything was mostly okay (a.k.a pre-canon). Some hermit-bothering, some magic, and a sprinkle of angst thrown in for good measure. Have fun!

“You again?”

Ralathor sighed and put down his book. He didn’t quite have the heart to glare at the intruder, but he hoped that the strict frown and the raised eyebrow, as well as the thoroughly exasperated tone of his voice, would be indicative enough of his displeasure relating to this visit.

“Hi, Mister Hermit, sir,” the young prince of Fife greeted him with a wave and a wide smile, “how do you do?”

Ralathor was continuously surprised by the young man’s manners. He was only all of four years old after all. But then again, it was only customary to have the heir of an intergalactic empire trained in diplomacy even before he was strong enough to pick up a proper training sword.

“I’m…well, Angus, thank you,” he answered, resigning himself to his fate as babysitter by misfortune.

“What are you doing in the caves again?”

Angus looked guilty for a moment. Ralathor’s suspicions were confirmed: he was definitely not supposed to be there. Normally, the prince was given enough freedom to roam around the castle and the grounds with minimal supervision, but the caves beneath the citadel were strictly off-limits without at least one guard accompanying him. Something about falling and splitting his skull open on a rock, fragile as children were, royalty or not. Angus was the only heir to the crystalline throne of Fife, of course he was to be protected at all times.

Angus, however, was in that peculiar age when children were hell-bent on causing their parents and general surroundings as much grief and annoyance as possible. Ralathor couldn’t recall the amount of times he’d had to leave his work to return the young prince to the citadel. He disliked going there – the common folk were courteous and mostly stayed out of his way, but they certainly looked their fill.

Ralathor was somewhat used to it. He knew about the legends and gossip floating around the castle grounds about his true nature, and as it happened to be, all of those stories were true. It wasn’t undeserved attention in that aspect. Even so, he had become a hermit for a reason. He had turned down court mage offers from each and every previous king of Fife, repeating the well-practiced speech about being honoured but preferring a humble way of life, dedicated to learning and the silent watch over the chosen bloodline of the Hammer of Glory.

He disliked company. He had his yearly council with the reigning king, he temporarily took on the role of strategist when it came to war, and he educated each new hero chosen by the Hammer about their legacy and their eventual destiny. Other than that, he enjoyed the quiet of the caves and the company of his own thoughts, thank you very much.

“I wanted to explore,” Angus finally replied, somewhat sheepishly, the lisp from his two missing upper incisors turning the x into a long s sound.

“And that’s your right as crown prince of Fife,” Ralathor bowed his head, “but I do recall something about the caves being restricted? Or has your father, his highness, allowed you here?”

“Yes!”

Ralathor frowned.

“…No.”

“Just as I suspected,” Ralathor nodded, wagging a finger at the young prince.

“Now, why did you come here despite the rules?”

“I…I wanted to see the lights.”

Ralathor pursed his lips.

“The lights?”

“You make blue light float in the air like bugs!” Angus exclaimed, flapping his hands excitedly.

Ralathor considered it. He had to admit it – he was fond of the young prince. Ralathor enjoyed children; creatures of light, full of curiosity and imagination that had not been snuffed by the cruelty of the world just yet. In a way, he could see himself in them, or the person he had been a long time ago. Naïve to a fault and eternally fascinated by the world around him. That curiosity had been the very thing to lead him to Zargothrax, the opportunity to learn from him, to gain the knowledge of one of the oldest wizards in Fife, in the whole multiverse. And, well, _that_ turned out great for him. Despite all his bitterness, though, he still admired innocence and curiosity.

He supposed he could indulge the young prince before his curious nature would inevitably trained out of him by the strict rules of diplomacy. He could feel something about this child, something that told him that whatever the McFifes had been destined to accomplish would culminate in the lifetime of the little boy in front of him.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, “close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to look.”

Angus nodded and clasped his hands over his eyes, practically bouncing in place from excitement. Ralathor didn’t need him to have his eyes closed, not really, but he supposed it added to the, erm, magic of the whole phenomenon for the young prince.

Ralathor concentrated on what he wished to conjure, a flurry of blue lights, about as large as fireflies materializing out of thin air by his will. He decided to give Angus a little show, and with a few small gestures of his hands, he pulled unicorns and dragons and a hero with a glowing warhammer into existence. The lights danced around in the dim cave, the opposite of shadow puppet theatre.

“Open them,” Ralathor commanded Angus, and the boy lowered his hands.

There was a certain look humans would, without exception, get on their faces whenever they came into direct contact with visible magic. The wide-eyed wonder, the disbelieving smile, the childlike joy of witnessing something that was so far beyond their comprehension, yet still so beautiful.

Children, being what they were – a bundle of unspoiled imagination, that is – were even more open in their excitement. Ralathor couldn’t help the smile in the corner of his mouth as the young prince shrieked in delight, reaching after the blue sparks with greedy hands.

Ralathor leaned back against the wall of the cave, content to wait until Angus would get enough of watching the unicorns gallop through thin air around him, of the dragons breathing fire and the hero wielding his hammer. Some part of him wanted the young prince to be a happy and carefree child, even if only for a minute. It would do him a lot of good to be just a child before the hammer, and with it, the heavy burden of destiny, would be passed onto him.

“Thank you, Mister Ralathor,” Angus said when the last of the lights died down around him.

“You’re welcome,” Ralathor smiled, “now come, let’s get you back to the citadel. I’m sure they’re all looking for you by now.”

Angus contemplated this for a few moments.

“Okay,” he conceded finally.

“Can you carry me? I’m tired.”

Ralathor was going to say something about him not being a babysitter, and that _surely_ if Angus found his way to his cave then he would have no problem finding his way back to the surface as well. He was definitely going to say that. But then the young prince rubbed at his eyes with balled up little fists and Ralathor decided that there were better moments to complain about his non-existent pay grade not covering prince-carrying duties. So he leaned down and lifted the most important toddler in the universe into his arms.

“You’re really cool,” Angus muttered once he was comfortably snuggled into Ralathor’s hold.

“Why, thank you,” Ralathor grimaced. He adjusted his grip on Angus and started walking down the narrow tunnel that would lead him back to the surface.

“Father says you don’t like us very much,” the young prince continued, “but I think that when I grow up, we will be the best of friends.”

Ralathor’s heart twisted at the thought. He hoped the exact opposite of that. Growing attached to mortals was the perfect setup for inevitable tragedy. They were barely more than a second on the stopwatch that measured Ralathor’s time in this world, and he knew that if he made the mistake of growing attached, he would carry that pain with him for centuries. No, as much as it pained Ralathor, he couldn’t be more than the mysterious hermit of Cowdenbeath. Not to the child in his arms, not to any of the McFifes who had come before him.

“I’m sure it will be so,” he murmured, and with a gentle brush of his fingers against the young prince’s temple, he removed all memories of the afternoon from his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


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